Author: mayasprouse

The creativity of our bodies will endure
As we tear ourselves limb from limb each night.
I pause here; my thoughts bend to the age of sleep,
The collective consciousness dipping in and out
Of this reality into a place where no air exists,
So far removed that our breath is the only thing
Keeping our minds attached to this world.
I trace my fingertips over the silk water that shines
Like frosted glass; the thin veil between my worry
And the private universe where I can hardly stand
To go. The sky burns and ash falls onto my head,
But the rain mixes with pure light causing beautiful
Sharp and blinding drops to scratch and etch my
Skin. Meanwhile, the cool night which envelops
My living body slowly pulls me back and into quiet
Breathing darkness. Once again I am left to question
The thousand lives we lead in that timeless mirror.
And where does that energy go when we wake?
I imagine it flying to another creature’s mirror
To torment or to kiss while trapped in their glass.
I imagine it whispering to the subconscious in
Whatever tone and mood it might desire on any
Given earthy day. I imagine it as the immature spirit
Of tangible space, taunting us in the only way
It knows how to reach us. Our waking selves too
Attached to the physical world to hear and
Feel beyond the simplest terms. That energy
Endures, pushing us forward, urging us to find
The creativity in our skin and bones and blood
While we still possess them. Embracing a form
The universe itself will never have. To taste,
To smell, to touch, to speak, to hear. To dream.
What creative bodies we possess. What a pleasure
And a curse which is ours to love and hate alone.
What a pleasure it is to breathe before that spirit
Burns us from our bodies and swiftly pulls us home.

It’s interesting that I was making all these observations of leftovers from the S.U. and European fascist regimes — and yet exiting Prague, no police come through our train like they did when we came into the C.R. from Austria, but as soon as we get into Germany; police officers (and quite a few of them) start coming through checking every compartment. Munich is just one incident in those that have happened and those that will. It’s made me think of these echoes from what’s passed and what’s made lasting impressions and changes and I wonder how long the current state of terrorism, home grown and foreign, will continue. These things don’t get forgotten. And I wonder what will happen as civil unrest slides into the focus of the general “comfortable” population; (forced into focus – not merely created recently as some would like to tout).

I find it odd to hear people who wouldn’t really be under any threat solely based on who they are declare “What if I get shot in the States!” Even the foreigners the U.S. tends to love (re: white; because there are “good” foreigners and “bad” ones), don’t really have any cause to be alarmed, and yet they still think our police and home grown terrorist attacks will lead to their death in the States. I feel that this type of fear has been what U.S. Citizens have felt for Eastern Europe for a long time. The roles seems to have been reversed.

On the more realistic side, countries have started issuing travel warnings for black men entering the U.S. • A concern that is all together real. It’s been interesting to hear accounts of people’s emotional relationship with the U.S. As I travel through various regions of Europe. People who still saw in the states {The American Dream} no longer do. They’ve seen the edges crumbling and are sad and disappointed. Never mind that it’s always been this disappointing. The entire world, based on what I’ve heard in my travels, seems to think this is the end of this epoch as we know it and that the US is going to destroy everything. They think we’re m*d and st*p*d. We are proving to be what they always thought we were.

What rapture, what joy.
A joy I’ll never feel again.
As joy itself throws me
From jagged to hounds.
I watch that face as if all
Was peaceful as I slowly
Sink into the caverned
And deep. What joy. Ah.
You look so sad to see
The fall, though you are
The one who pushed.
Joy, feel no sorrow, I am
Time again – and hold a
Gold heart. I feel a cold
Wind fold over me soft
And gentle, is this how
It feels to die? If so, we
Are all so wrong. Joy is
In death and life floods
The center of the earth.
Decay, merely a selfish
Exaltation. I’ll embrace
To how wonderful and
Sullen the sun feels at
The end of the day. At
The turn of the hours
When a bright and the
Lonely star rests for a
Simple second, owing
All its lifetime to other
Less wonderful walks
Of life. Sun and joy, a
Couple joined in deep
Rapture and sadness.
How ordinary they do
Long to be, as all eyes
Turn to them in each
Daylight – expecting
A deliverance on their
Promises. But these
Two are only young
Children who break
Simple promises each
Day. Untrustworthy as
Old lovers who grow
Tired. As children who
Always search for new
Places to run. As the
Promise of forever.

With lots and lots of heavy heart
We’ll learn to live,
We’ll learn to love
Another day.
And in the wind I hear your whispers,
I hear your heart and hold
Your hand.
I hope you understand that all we
Have is our lungs,
Everything else is just good luck.
Rest your head,
Gentle and tender child.
Be free to feel your pain and laugh
With sincerity at
The loneliness.
It wanes it wanes.
It will wane like silver,
And the tarnish will
Be wiped away.

(Dedicated to my beautiful friend, a gorgeous woman with a beautiful soul.)